Letters to Father Christmas
by kouw
Summary: It happens on a midnight clear: Mr Carson finds some private correspondence of Mrs Hughes. Christmassy fic is Christmassy.
1. Chapter 1

**AN:** So here it is, my first fic after NaNoWriMo. It was wonderful to write something without the pressure and to have it beta'ed (thank you, Dee!). Now, before you start reading, you must know that **I don't think Elsie Hughes pines for Charles Carson**. So when you get to the part of this fic where Elsie asks something of Father Christmas, please keep in mind that it is not a _serious_ thing. Good, now I've gotten that off my chest, I can safely wish you all a happy read and a fantastic start of the festive season! Enjoy and don't hesitate to let me know what you think!

* * *

><p>He is making his last rounds for the night - they've all just returned from the Midnight Service and he's shooed every last of them up to bed. Nobody has protested much (there were half-hearted offers of help), except for Mrs Hughes, who was adamant she'd help him close up, but after some stern words (at which she rolled her eyes in that particular way of hers that makes him go a little weak in the knees) she followed Mrs Patmore up the stairs. He listened until he heard the metallic click of the key being turned in the lock.<p>

There wasn't much to do: only locking the doors and checking the grates and maybe emptying a wastepaper basket or two so there won't be any apple cores or half-eaten mince pies inviting the mice in. He walks through the rooms, admires the tree in the hall (elaborately decorated, but he still prefers the small one in the Servants' Hall with the decorations the maids make themselves each year by sewing together popped corn and by cutting out little birds from thick paper) and goes downstairs to check her parlour.

Not that she's ever gone out without checking her fire, but she too is only human and he would never tell her if anything were not quite right. And he would never forgive himself if something were wrong. He enters her _almost_ personal domain; her parlour is decorated sparsely, but does he does feel warmer here, welcome. The bin in the corner has three scrunched up balls of writing paper. He picks them up and puts them on her desk, there is no need to take the whole bin for so few bits that need to be thrown out.

He picks up the first wad of paper and he makes out the first line of a letter and he is quite surprised it's in her hand:

"_Dear Father Christmas,_

_I cannot claim to have been solely good this year. My temper remains short, my curiosity big and I still get easily distracted when I am supposed to listen to the reverend's sermon on chilly Sunday mornings."_

The letter ends there and he frowns. What a very peculiar thing for Mrs Hughes to be doing: writing to Father Christmas is rather a child's pastime. He picks up the second piece of paper and reads the passage on there:

"_Dear Father Christmas,_

_Like every year I have tried to be more patient (and failed), tried to keep my curiosity in check (and failed) and tried to listen to Mr Travis drone on about charity and chastity every Sunday (and failed that most spectacularly) and I know that perhaps I could have tried a bit harder. I understand that with such flaws it really doesn't do to ask you any favours, but you see, there's this one thing that I wish for this Christmas. _

_Every year the young ones hang a sprig of mistletoe over the Servants' Hall entrance and in the spirit of Christmas, I allow them to leave it up. _

_If I promise to be good, would it be possible if Mr Carson would find me standing under the mistletoe? And maybe kiss me? _

_I am aware it is a rather large gift to ask, especially from such an ill-behaved old woman, but I promise to be good. I solemnly promise._

_Please give my love to Mrs Claus - I can imagine she is very busy this time of year, trying to keep things organised in your home whilst you work so hard - and to your loyal reindeer and elves. You know how to help yourself to some milk and biscuits in the kitchen and I won't tell if you sample some of his Lordship's fine Scotch: your travels are cold after all._

_Love,_

_Elsie Hughes, 59 and two-thirds"_

Colour is rising to his cheeks and he coughs at his own train of thought (kissing Mrs Hughes, kissing Elsie Hughes, kissing Elsie) and crumples the sheet of paper up again. He looks at the final sheet of paper.

It's a shopping list - filled with presents for all the staff and the children. Every single one of them has been remembered, ideas behind their names, some crossed out. There's a pair of fine gloves for Daisy, a bottle of scent for Miss Baxter. A lighter for Mr Barrow, a stuffed toy for Miss Marigold, a book from a writer he's never heard of for Mr Molesley.

His name is missing from the list.

He clears his throat again, knowing his gift for her is safely stowed away in his wardrobe (he's not gotten the others anything - he never does - but there are some toys for the children in there - a little wind-up car, a doll's dress, building blocks). He picks up the wads of paper and takes them with him to the big bin in the kitchen. Puts them in there: he doubts she would want anyone reading her personal letters.

He shakes his head. It was quite wrong of him to read it. Very wrong indeed. He is as curious as she is - although he would never call it curiosity on her part, but rather a keen interest in her fellow man. He would call her temperamental, but only because he is so often on the receiving end of her outbursts (and he doesn't mind it much, thinks she is beautiful when passionately speaking to him). And Mr Travis does drone on very boringly every Sunday and he has been recycling his sermons since the war ended. He doesn't blame her for getting distracted.

These days he finds he only goes to church for the singing.

Because she sings so beautifully.

In fact, everything about her is very beautiful. From her slim ankles to her deep dark hair. He'll never say it out loud, but her face is an artist's dream - with her finely drawn lips and vibrant eyes, her high cheekbones and expressive eyebrows.

He shakes himself out mentally. It's time for bed, not for musing about Mrs Hughes's fine ankles or enticing curves. He turns out the lights and ascends the stairs, one step by one until he reaches the sanctuary of his bedroom, where he changes into his pyjamas, cleans his teeth and combs his hair.

Before he falls asleep though, he comes up with a plan. A good plan. A plan he's had since his bout of Spanish 'flu. And it's time to put it into action.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN:** thank you everybody for being so encouraging and awesome! Prepare for some gentle goobering: we're getting closer to the plan being put into action!

- if you find any mistakes, please let me know: Dee did give this the once over, but I am an impatient sort. And ill, so I'll be blaming my fever. Anyway: hope you'll enjoy and don't hesitate to review!

- – — – -

In the morning, before breakfast (before it's time for the staff to find their gifts piled high under the tree, placed there by her long before the crack of dawn), he finds her kneeling beside the tree placing the figurines of the nativity in some wooden crates she's lined with hay from the stables, sprigs of holly and berries peeping out between the ox and the wise men. She is looking well-rested and happy, a smile plays on her lips.

He wishes she could always be so content.

"Could you hand me poor Melchior? I've left him on the table."

He is not surprised she knew he was there and he picks up the figurine and gives it to her. She reaches up to grasp it and smiles at him.

"You are up early," she says and puts Melchior in his rightful place.

"A little quiet before the storm," he replies, not telling her that he woke up early after repeated dreams of kissing her, of taking her in his arms, of pulling her close. Of her looking pretty in a new dress, with her hair soft and curling - much the way it looked during the war (he sometimes thinks she was happiest then, before Mr Bates's former wife came along to mess up Anna's life, before Ethel fell prey to the empty promises of a young, randy lieutenant, before Lady Sybil died in childbirth, when Elsie Hughes, Housekeeper, had a good gaggle of maids to command - but he knows she loves the changes in the world, the way she has the vote now and Daisy is getting an education and retirement is closer in sight).

"I hope they'll like their gifts," she says and she looks at the pile of presents, worrying her lip.

"I'm sure they will."

"I fear I'm a little out of touch with what they want, Mr Carson. I'm getting old."

She reaches for him and he helps her up. She wipes the dust from her knees and looks at him, her head tilted slightly, a tiny smile playing around her lips.

"This is where you say '_Oh, no, Mrs Hughes, not you, you are eternally young!_'"

He chuckles a bit. "I was actually thinking that. You keep up with them a lot better than I do."

He has not let go of her hand yet and it suddenly dawns on him that he probably should. But he holds on and she doesn't seem to mind.

"Do you remember when Daisy was a scullery maid and had to light the range in the early morning and she found the presents that first winter she was with us?"

He lets out a chuckle. "She ran back upstairs, calling out to Mrs Patmore."

He falls quiet then.

"It never occurred to me that she had never had presents at Christmas before."

"Well, we've made up for that. There's one from Mr Mason as well as ours."

He feels a little tingly when she says 'ours'. He squeezes her hand softly and she squeezes back.

"How about I make us a nice cup of tea? It will be half an hour before they all come thundering in."

He nods. "Yes please. But don't we have to wait for the range to be lit?"

"Oh Mr Carson, you must move with the times. We had a gas stove installed this Season, don't you remember?"

But he hardly hears her as he focuses on her lips as she speaks. He shakes his head a little and she puts her hand on his arm.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes, of course," he doesn't shrug her hand off, but he dismisses her concern easily - the way he has done so many times before. He doesn't like it when she thinks he is weak or ill.

"Well, if you say so. I'll fetch you that tea and I expect they will all come running down soon."

"Will you join them?" he asks.

She frowns a bit. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Oh… erm… nothing. Sorry. No. Indeed. Of course you will. We both will. Breakfast."

He is stammering and he can feel she is going to be ask him again if he is alright and he would be alright if he didn't think of what is waiting for him in his pantry. For both of them. He straightens his back.

Clears his throat.

"I'll be back shortly, Mrs Hughes," he says and she nods. When she walks away his arm feels cold where her hand had been, like a loss.

When he returns (his gift in the pocket of his coat) she is talking easily, cheerfully with Mrs Patmore who has joined them for breakfast in the Servants' Hall. It's an old tradition they enjoy - a little break in their usual routine.

The young ones are still unwrapping gifts, chatting happily. Charles notices that there's much of the same as there's always been: handkerchiefs and tins of biscuits, small bottles of scent, tickets for the cinema in Ripon. Mrs Patmore has her gift still in her hands: a broach in the style she is fond of. Mrs Hughes is pouring tea, keeping her eye on the bells. She is buttering toast, sliding the pieces on plates she can reach, making sure her 'brood' gets some nourishment before they have to get back to work.

"Why are you hovering in the doorway, Mr Carson?" Mrs Patmore gives him a cheeky smile. "Are you awaiting a kiss?"

He jumps away from under the mistletoe, feeling his cheeks colour.

As do Mrs Hughes's, but nobody is looking at her, they are all looking at him.

"Frivolous nonsense, Mrs Patmore," he says and the cook laughs.

"I remember many a Christmas I lingered under the mistletoe when I was a kitchen maid."

"Were there ever many takers, Mrs Patmore?" Thomas asks her drolly and the cook smiles enigmatically.

"You'll never know!"

Everybody laughs now and Charles is thankful for the distraction. The sound of easy laughter makes him happy, though he'll never admit it. Camaraderie among staff is important for the running of a house as big as Downton. You need everyone to feel some goodwill for the other and for all of them to pull together.

He leads with discipline and strictness and she (Mrs Hughes, Elsie Hughes, Elsie) with discipline and kindness. He is learning from her. Daisy is sitting next to Mr Molesley, showing him her _two _gifts: a little pot of a soft pink lip colour (from her) and a book of advanced math problems - from him.

He hopes that by gifting her this, she understands he has nothing against her sitting her exams soon. (He had heard Mrs Hughes upset statement as he had followed Mr Molesley to Sgt Willis and it had made him think. It took a good while, but perhaps Mrs Hughes is right: why not make the most of talent and gifts given. Had he not done the same? The son of a groom, sitting here overlooking the staff he commands?)

"That was nice of you," she says in between sips of tea.

"She deserves it," he responds, hardly able to look at her.

Bells start ringing then and he sends everyone on their way with his customary 'no dawdling', now accompanied with 'happy Christmas'.

Mrs Hughes bites into her toast one last time, gets up, brushes away nonexistent crumbs from her dress (quick motions, sliding the side of her hand across the front - he is aware it is wrong to let his gaze linger, but...). She picks up her teacup to take to her parlour.

"Would you mind stepping into my pantry later, I've an issue with last Wednesday's coal bill."

She smiles quite brilliantly. "Of course, Mr Carson. I'll come in after my rounds."

He nods.

That should give him an hour to pull himself together and put a stop to these nervously rambling thoughts of her mouth and the front of her dress.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Thank you everybody for your reviews and your amazing support. This update is intensely late because I have been ill. This chapter has not been beta-ed, so please do point out anything odd.

Wishing you all a very happy Christmas Eve and looking forward to tomorrow's explosion of Carson/Hughes fics!

XOXO ~ kouw

* * *

><p>The clock ticks obnoxiously and his fingers drum against his ledger incessantly. His nerves are overwhelming him. It's Christmas, he should be able to relax a bit, to take a breath, to not worry so much (she would tell him to lighten up, to cease the moment, that 'it's <em>Christmas<em>!'), but his gift that once seemed so thoughtful makes him wonder if she would see it as an insult.

His mind keeps returning to her shapely ankles, to the way her dress clings to her and that she is the only one left in the house who wears a corset.

A very undignified thing to think. Most ungentlemanly.

He swallows hard, presses his thumb and index finger against the bridge of his nose, hoping to relief some of the tension that is throbbing dully in his forehead. He groans. What a thing to ask of her, to join him in his pantry. He doesn't know when she'll show up (he does, he knows she is still upstairs, making her rounds, making certain that everything is just _so_ for the party the family is hosting tonight.

Everything will be _just so_. It always is. In the past decades standards slipped only once and never in the face of the family. Her words still ring in the back of his mind: If you and the blessed Lady Mary…

Blasted, more like.

He balls his fist, squeezes hard. His knuckles whiten.

He is not used to being in a situation where he doesn't know the outcome of a plan. He is not used to not being in control. He likes his rules, the regulation, the tradition, the routine. He likes when he is in agreement with her, when they get along with just her barbs and smiles and his blundering here and there. He likes drinking sherry with her at night and discussing everything that comes to pass. He likes that she knows exactly how he likes his tea and he likes that she rolls her eyes at him without trying to conceal it.

"Mr Carson?"

It's her and he glances at the clock. She is so much earlier than she said she'd be and the colour is high in her cheeks.

"Yes, Mrs Hughes?"

"The family is going to turn on the lights on the Christmas tree, I thought you'd like to come and watch it with us?"

He nods dumbly, gets up automatically, follows her. Her skirts swing in counter of her hips (enticing hips that he wishes he could put his hands on), the sound of her heels echo in the hall. She rushes up the stairs (so wrong, he should have told her he would go first, like a gentleman, but she would have sighed, would have told him there wasn't time, that they were to hurry, that the children are impatient), opens the green baize door and steps into the hall.

Miss Sybil runs towards them: "Daddy is going to light the tree!" she says excitedly and Mrs Hughes chuckles.

"He is going to turn on the lights, Miss Sybil."

"Yes, that is what I said, come on!" She takes Mrs Hughes's hand and pulls her closer to the tree. The other servants are there already, waiting. Even Thomas, looking blasé but keeping his eye out for Miss Marigold.

Mr Branson counts back from ten and the reactions from the children are delightful, as are those of the servants. Their charges. Charles sighs. Nods. Checks his watch. It's time to get back to work really and he sees the footmen disperse, her maids disappear in different rooms and Mrs Hughes goes downstairs.

He checks the wine choices with Lord Grantham and afterwards goes down the narrow stairs, his head pounding with pent up nerves, the gift in his pocket a small weight reminding him he's still not given it to her.

The Servants' Hall is empty. It feels cold, the light is dim. He stands in the doorway, deciding what to do when he feels her hand on his shoulder.

"Are you still waiting for that kiss?" she asks, her eyes smiling and he just stares at her. Before he knows it, her lips are on his cheek and without any conscious thought his hands land on her hips and pull her close. If she is surprised she doesn't show it. He nods then and says:

"I am."

He doesn't know where it comes from - all those rehearsed phrases that have kept him up all night, all the proper ways to court a magnificent woman like Elsie Hughes have fled his mind and he leans in, captures her lips with his and kisses her deeply. Her arms are around his neck then and he can feel her form pressed up against him, her corset a stiff boundary between them.

She makes a noise - music to his ears - and he slides one hand from her hip to her back, a bit lower and she responds by threading her fingers through his hair.

When he finally pulls back they are both breathless. She is smiling, but doesn't take her arms from his neck, doesn't step back.

"Father Christmas must have received my letter," she says and there is a mischievous twinkle in her eye that takes his breath away.

"I suppose he must have."

"He's quite good at finding them, because I left it in my bin since I felt it was really too silly to send, but he found it anyway and here I am."

"Yes… here you are. Here _we_ are…"

He presses his lips together.

"I've not given you your present yet," she says, her tone conversational, as if she hasn't her belly pressed against his.

"Nor I mine to you." He is surprised his voice isn't quaking, that she isn't running from him. Supposes he must be dreaming, that it must all be a hallucination of some sort.

"Do you think perhaps we should exchange them now?"

He nods dumbly, unable to say what is on his mind.

"Come on, then!"

She takes his hand and he lets her lead him to her parlour, sinks down in the chair he's occupied for the past twenty-odd years and waits. She puts a little parcel in front of him, wrapped in brown paper, bound by a red ribbon.

"You'll think it very silly," she says.

"You'll think my gift very silly too."

"I doubt it," she smiles and pushes her gift a little more towards him. He picks it up and unties the bow. The paper comes off easily.

It's a leather pouch filled with stationary with his own letterhead - which she must have either handpicked or even designed for him. There's a new pen and a sheet of ten stamps.

He looks up at her.

"This is very…" He doesn't say what his first thought it: extravagant. It's too much, really. It's both deeply personal and it must have cost her a pretty penny.

"Unexpected," he manages. There's a look that he cannot name flitting over her face.

"This is mine… I mean, yours. I mean… This is for you," he stumbles over the words.

She is smiling again and takes the little package from him. She unties the ribbon, pulls away the paper. She opens the small box and takes out what he's gifted her.

"Oh…" she says and he can hear the same tone of voice that he's just used.

They are on even footing at least.

"This is very unexpected too…"

She holds it up and examines it.

"It was my mother's."

She frowns. "Your mother's?"

"She wore it much the same as you do."

The silver glistens in the light and she tilts her head a little.

"I thought you didn't have anything to remember her by," she says quietly.

"Not much. Just a faded photograph and that."

"Are you certain you want to give it to me?"

"I've never been more certain of anything."

She reaches out to him then and he takes her hand. Hers is warm and dry, his is cold and slightly damp. Nerves.

"Thank you."

"Thank you for your lovely gift. It's very thoughtful."

"You'll want to write when you're away for the Season…" she says and she bites her lip, looks away, stares at her fingernails.

He thinks for a moment.

"Or when I want to write to Father Christmas," he finally says and she laughs then.

"Yes. Whichever comes first."

Silence hangs between them. She fidgets with the embroidery scissors, he runs his fingertip over the soft leather of the pouch.

"Was there anything else you wanted for Christmas?" he asks after long seconds.

"No, just a kiss under the mistletoe from you."

"You know, I think there weren't any berries on that particular branch…" He swallows a few times while she looks at him, her eyes boring into his.

"That's not good."

"Perhaps we should find another sprig."

"There is one in the library," he coaxes and she gets up so quickly, her chair trembles. She picks up the scissors and attaches them to her chatelaine.

"Now I can think of you every time I use it."

He nods and they hurry down the corridor, up the stairs, through the green baize door. Past the Christmas tree where the children are playing and into the library.

"Where is it?" she asks and he reaches in his inside pocket and pulls out a small sprig of mistletoe.

"Here," he smiles as he holds it up over her head and lowers his lips to hers.

"Happy Christmas, Mrs Hughes," he wishes when they break apart.

"Happy Christmas, Mr Carson."

* * *

><p>THE END<p>

(I think…)


End file.
